


The Clinical Sacrifice of a Oryctolagus cuniculus

by recoveringrabbit



Series: A Love Story With Detective Interruptions [6]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, F/M, including but not limited to Aaria, various established OCs from this verse, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 22:18:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10228769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: Summer 1939 - Tony Stark makes a flying visit, and, in typical Tony Stark fashion, manages to hit the nail on the head in the most irritating manner possible.





	

Jemma’s hat landed unceremoniously on the hall table, nudging her recklessly balled-up lace gloves to the floor next to the WVS badge that had fallen from her pocket. In the corner of the pier glass, Lane’s reflection pretended to stifle a sigh and bent to pick them up. “Good evening, madam. Is Mrs. Fitz not with you?”

“No,” Jemma said, noting the way her smile spread across her face and attempting to bring it under control, “I had another appointment and left her at the parish hall. Lane, did I see the car in the garage? Is Fitz home already?”

“Yes, madam, in the drawing room. But madam, I should say—”

“I’ll just run in and see him first, then.” Already at the door, she paused with her hand on the knob. “And Lane, do hold off on bringing my tea, would you? I’ll just have it when Jakob and Lise have theirs. I expect Fitz will want his then, too, unless he’s already got it.”

“I believe he has scotch at the moment,” said Lane, not a little disapproving. Lane often disapproved of her, though, particularly when she couldn’t manage to veneer her delight at five minutes alone with her husband, so Jemma fondly ignored his significant tone and nipped into the drawing room, keeping her back to the room as she locked the door for good measure. This was an unlooked-for stroke of luck; she intended to make the most of it.

“Hullo, sweetheart, I’m _so_ pleased you’re here—”

“The feeling is quite mutual, Doctor Fitz-Simmons. Which is unusual, for me, so I hope you recognize the honor.”

Jemma whipped around, horrified, to find that her ears had _not_ deceived her—there, rising from the depths of her chair, stood Tony Stark in the flesh, trademarked smugly complacent smirk resting snugly under his mustache and a suit that likely cost more than her wedding gown. Behind him, Fitz peered apologetically around the wingback. “Mr. Stark!” she said, scrabbling to return to solid ground, “what a surprise. We weren’t expecting you, I think?”

“Does anyone?” He came over to her and took both her hands in his, pressing a loud kiss to their backs before swinging them out to give her a lookover. “Degrees suit you, Doctor. You’re positively radiant.”

“I had degrees before,” she said with a quick SOS over his shoulder.

Obeying the summons, Fitz tripped over his feet in his haste to get up. “Stark flew in today and showed up at the office while I was in my meeting with Lord Chattfield. Showed up _in_ the meeting, actually.”

“Ah, well,” Stark shrugged, “I thought one of you would be available, at least. Imagine my surprise to find that not the case.”

They spoke at once, affronted on the other’s behalf:

“Fitz is very busy these days, as you well know with all the work you keep giving him.”

“The Women’s Voluntary Services have needed Jemma twice this week at odd times, she’s not shirking.”

“Still got it,” Stark said, delighted, then resumed his examination of Jemma. “If it’s not the degree, it’s got to be something else. A woman doesn’t suddenly look this beautiful without a good reason.”

Jemma flushed, clearing her throat; Fitz, finally at her side, reclaimed her hand and tucked it in his elbow. “I think you look exactly as nice as you always have,” he said loyally.

She squeezed his arm, grateful. “So you popped into the meeting and then round for drinks? How nice. We’ll have to dine together while you’re here.”

“Oh, we are,” Stark said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “tonight.”

Turning to Fitz, Jemma echoed Stark with one eyebrow raised: “tonight?” Now she understood his earlier guilty expression. “I thought we had plans for this evening already? Surely another night would be better.”

_I tried,_ he told her. Stark waved it off.

“I’m only here this one night before I fly on to Paris. Now or never, I’m afraid. And in these dangerous times, now, or it really might be never.”

“But,” Jemma began, even as Fitz shook his head, “I don’t think you would enjoy—”

“Fitz told me about your friends, but I say, the more the merrier! My old man was Jewish, too.”

“Not this kind,” Fitz muttered under his breath. Jemma had a sudden picture of Tony Stark in the midst of Aaron’s family and sucked in a breath, relieved beyond words they had agreed to drinks at home with Aaron and Sylvia instead.

“And,” Stark continued, oblivious in the way only the really self-centered or really determined can be, “I hear it’s a celebration! Please don’t take offense, but it doesn’t take much to have a better palate than you two when it comes to wine and champagne.” He cast a plaintive glance back towards the chairs. “Although that is good Scotch, I admit. Any chance of more?”

“Of course,” Fitz said automatically, “d’you want any, Simmons?”

“No, thank you.” She held his arm as he attempted to follow Tony back to the fire, catching his eye with significance. “It’s almost tea time.”

His eyes widened. “Ah, yes. Teatime. As in, the time we all have tea.”

“Just so.” _How are you thinking we’ll handle this?_

_I wasn’t exactly thinking, Jemma._

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. _Clearly._

_We’ll just have to. . .hope for the best?_ he offered, scratching at his cheek. She managed to keep back her groan, but scarcely. Truly, there was nothing else to be done, but of all the people in the world she’d prefer to keep away from two sensitive and impressionable, though healing, children, Tony Stark probably topped the list. She sent a silent apology to Jakob and Lise’s mother, hoping—as she always did—that she’d get the chance to tell her in person someday.

“I’ll skip the tea, thanks,” Stark called over, already pouring himself a generous lashing of Scotch. “Just can’t make myself like it.”

Fitz shot her a quick flicker of a smile, just enough to remind her that the best was a perfectly viable outcome, and released her hand to let her take her time following him. She didn’t wait long. Even if she couldn’t have Fitz to herself just yet, his mere presence was worth enduring twenty Tony Starks.

At precisely five minutes after five, a knock reminded her that she had locked the door and been distracted from her original purpose. Fitz got up without being told, eagerly hopping up to open it and suddenly looking like the boy she wished she had known. “Who’s there?” Stark asked, but she turned without answering to watch one of her favorite sights of the day.

“Fee, fi, fo, fum,” Fitz growled, and from the other side of the door two voices piped “I smell the blood of a Scottish man!”

“Much stronger blood than an Englishman,” Fitz said with a wink Jemma’s direction, then opened the door and tousled the boy’s hair before bending down to swing the small girl up into his arms. Lise threw her arms around his neck, jabbering in German with her missing-front-tooth lisp until Fitz said, “Slower, Lise, or English.”

“She says we thought we saw the car,” Jakob translated, grabbing Fitz’s pocket with the hand not holding his yellow notebook, “but I told her it was too early for you. It was, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Fitz agreed, “but I had to bring home our guest for tea.” No doubt, Jemma thought drily, _had_ was the right word; Tony Stark loose at Macpherson could do untold damage. Lowering his voice conspiratorially, he continued, “he’s a bit of a star, you see, and doesn’t take no for an answer.”

Jakob and Lise’s heads snapped towards the chairs, gazes flying past Jemma to land on the aforementioned guest, who stood and took an overly dramatic bow. Jakob’s forehead furrowed, but Lise gasped and started wriggling so excitedly Fitz nearly dropped her. “ _Es ist Charlie Chaplin, oder? Kennst du Charlie Chaplin_?”

Eyes dancing when they met Jemma’s, Fitz got a better grip on the small girl. “No, darling, I’m not that exciting.”

Jakob eyed Stark sceptically. “ _Ach was, sein Schnurrbart ist viel alberner_.”

Only Fitz’s natural tendency to stoicism saved him from laughing aloud, and Jemma couldn’t quite manage and had to duck her smile behind her hand. Perhaps Jakob hadn’t been very kind, but he hadn’t been wrong, either. “Jakob, English before others, please, or perhaps consider keeping silent.”

“It’s all right,” Stark said, reclining lazily and waving his glass in the air. “ _Nicht so albern wie mein Gesicht ohne einen_.”

Jemma found it rather beastly that his accent was so much better than hers and Fitz’s, but the sheer delight on the children’s faces more than made up for it.

“And I,” Stark continued, “am very exciting. I do know Charlie Chaplin. If you ever come visit me in America I’ll invite him over and he can play the cello for us.”

Lise nudged Fitz to let her down, but kept a firm hold of his leg. “The cello, honest?”

“Never goes anywhere without it,” Stark swore, “practices every day, even when he’s on set or traveling.”

Lise tugged at Fitz’s trousers. “Like me, _Onkel_.”

“Just like. Practiced today already?”

Nodding, she bounced a little on her toes. “Do you want to listen?”

“After tea.” Fitz held his stomach dramatically. “I think my stomach has eaten itself, it’s so empty. I couldn’t concentrate if I was rumbly.”

Lise agreed seriously, then detached from him to come give Jemma a hug. Relishing the solid weight of the squirmy girl—who had come to them a still and solemn waif—Jemma kissed the side of her head as she lifted her into her lap. “Hullo darling. Learn anything interesting today?”

“No, only sums.”

Looking over Lise’s head to the other end of the sofa where Jakob settled gingerly, Jemma gave him the comradely nod he preferred. “And you, Jakob?”

“How to spell ‘renaissance’,” he said, only half paying attention. “ _Tante_ , you were with the volunteers today?”

“I was,” she said, “but not with the refugees. Nor was Nan. Perhaps next week?”

She offered the hope as a salve, but Jakob only swallowed and nodded, clearly and grimly resigned. Months of silence had begun to take their toll. Whatever tiny spark of optimism remained in his unnaturally old soul dwindled every time she had to tell him no, no word from the people he loved; all the comforts in the world and momentary happiness couldn’t stoke that flame. Jemma pressed her lips together, tightening her grasp on Lise to keep herself from reaching out to pull Jakob in. He wouldn’t thank her, no matter how much she wanted to let him know he was cared for.

As though he had seen her flinch, Fitz gripped Jakob’s shoulder briefly on his way back to his chair, meeting her eyes with pleasure when the boy almost invisibly leaned into his touch. “We’re seeing Kleine tonight; we’ll ask him too. Perhaps he’ll have heard something.”

Though the chance that Aaron would have any more information was slim, the idea seemed to reassure Jakob. That, or something about Fitz—personally, Jemma suspected the latter. He always had a way of making her concerns seem less dire. _Thank you_ , she told him, and he responded: _It’s little enough_. Clapping his hands together, he changed the subject before the heaviness had time to settle. “And now tea, thank goodness. Anyone care for toast?”

Jean bustled in at the same time as the tea tray, graciously declaring herself delighted by Stark’s presence and taking Fitz’s chair when he decamped to pour round the tea and nurse the fire to the perfect size for toasting. Conversation over tea consisted primarily of debating where they ought to go on holiday next month—Jean wanted Bath; Jemma thought Scotland would be lovely; Fitz preferred the sea, preferably one with a carnival, and had the children on his side—and Stark’s repeated confusion at their preference for toasting their bread on forks over the fire. “You do live in this century,” he said for the tenth time, “why not take advantage?”

“Onkel has made the toaster perfect, and it’s good for breakfast,” Jakob said, licking his fingers of the jam that dripped from his bread. “Sometimes it’s fun to do it yourself.”

“Mr. Stark knows that as well as anyone,” Fitz said, “or he wouldn’t be carrying three prototypes in his suitcase.”

“Models,” Stark corrected, aggrieved, “and you’re the one who’ll have all the fun of making them. Since I can’t convince my government there’s any use for them, better to bring them where they’ll be appreciated.”

At the dark look that crossed Fitz’s face, Jemma’s stomach flipped over. She had a decent idea of what sort of prototypes Stark meant. Jakob noticed the sudden shadow too, glancing up at her worriedly from his spot at her feet, and she tried her best to offer a reassuring smile as she set her empty teacup on the table. “Pot’s empty now, I think. Are your hands clean, Lise, so you can play for us?”

The little girl jumped to her feet, flashing them the fronts and backs of her hands before seizing Fitz by the hand and tugging him off the stool by the fire. “Come help me reach the notes. Please,” she added quickly before anyone could remind her, and Fitz pretended to be overcome by her strength all the way to the piano.

Jemma waited until they were settled and Jean had distracted Jakob before turning to Stark. “Please don’t talk about those sorts of things,” she said quietly, “it’s hard enough for them as it is.”

He raised both eyebrows. “You can’t keep the truth from them, you know. It’s spreading like an infection.”

Smiling without meaning it, she shook her head. “And they’re from the very centre of the disease. I don’t have to keep the truth from them; I only have to try and give them an hour or two in a day where they don’t have to think about it.”

Stark regarded her seriously from over the steeple of his fingertips. “You’re a natural at this, you know,” he said suddenly. “When Fitz told me what you were doing I thought you were crazy, but you’re doing a good thing. Both of you.”

A natural? Certainly not. Some days all she wanted to do was weep with the weight of the undertaking. But she and Fitz knew a bit about living with nightmares, and they had a great deal of love, and they hoped that could be enough. “We’re doing the best we can.”

“Better than my parents, that’s for sure.” Then, as if he had embarrassed himself, he cleared his throat and raised his voice. “In fact, this domestic set-up is missing only one thing. Any plans on that front?”

“Fitz refuses to have a small dog, and we’ve no room for a big one,” she said, reaching to pull her basket of gnarled knitting from under the sofa.

“Not a dog.” Stark rolled his eyes.

“I’m sure,” Jemma said, concentrating very hard on counting her stitches, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you don’t.”

If his words held a certain significance, Jemma chose to ignore it, diverting whatever attention remained from her knitting to listening to Lise and Fitz at the piano. Lise already showed signs of promise at the instrument, even with her tiny hands, and she never seemed happier than playing around with Fitz. Even now, her delighted giggle rang out as Fitz intentionally hit the wrong keys. Catching Jemma’s eye across the room, Fitz grinned. He, at least, was a natural, seeming to know by instinct what to do to make their guests feel happy and cared for. She had married Fitz without considering what he would be like as a paterfamilias, but wasn’t surprised to find that all the things she fell in love with extended to anyone else under his care. Anyone would be lucky to be loved by Fitz, she thought, and beamed back.

From the depths of his chair, Stark made a disbelieving noise. “How do they have any friends?” he demanded of Jean, who looked up from the game board she and Jakob were setting up. “With all their...private eye conversations. It’s disconcerting.”

Her mother-in-law considered. “Oh, well, I think they’re decent friends to people, as long as the rules are clearly understood. You might ask Aaron and Sylvia.”

Stark’s pensive expression boded no good, but Jemma contented herself with the fact that their friends weren’t due for an hour at least and any number of things to distract him might happen within that time. She, herself, forgot the matter entirely; encouraged to abandon her knitting for a rousing game or four of Snakes and Ladders followed by Happy Families, she found her attention demanded elsewhere. Then bedtime, which Jean always finished but she and Fitz began, and a frenzied rush of silken slips and cufflinks and dress shoes, and then she and Fitz were back down in the drawing room, dismayed and amused as Stark, with his maddening habit of remembering all the things one wished he wouldn’t, posed the question again.

Sylvia’s face went blank, a sure sign she didn’t know how to respond, while Aaron squinted one eye thoughtfully. “Well, they’ve got pots of money,” he said. “That covers a variety of ills.”

“Oh, for Lord’s sake,” Fitz said, carefully popping the cork of the wine Aaron provided. “You’re going to give Mr. Stark the wrong idea. We were friends before either of us had any money.”

“We were,” Aaron allowed, “but that was also before you and your wife formed your exclusive club, membership two. Now it’s only residual fondness that keeps us connected.”

“I think the definition of marriage is ‘exclusive club, membership two’,” Jemma said.

Fitz handed the glasses around. “That’s true. Right there in the ceremony: ‘forsaking all others’.”

“It doesn’t say that in ours,” Aaron told Sylvia.

Her eyes glowed golden as she swirled her wine around. “So we won’t be obligated to annoy our friends with private conversations to remind them we like each other better than them? And I was so looking forward to it.”

Watching them, Jemma made use of the last six months of practice and quashed the desire to clap her hands gleefully. Neither Aaron nor Sylvia appreciated having attention called to their relationship, even among intimate company; Sylvia had intentionally told Jemma of their engagement in the middle of a bustling teashop to avoid any dramatics. But she couldn’t help it. They were so happy together, and she was so pleased to see them so happy, that she found it difficult to keep it from spilling out, especially tonight. Fitz caught and pressed her free hand when he came to stand beside her, taking the burden of her delight by sharing his own.

“I make no apologies for preferring Jemma to any of you,” he said, and raised his wine glass in the air. “In fact, since I understand it’s my responsibility to give the toast on occasions like these, I’ll only say that I hope very much that you will always prefer each other to anyone else and that we’ll all be subjected to proof of that fact for years to come. And, er—” He dropped Jemma’s hand to root around in his pocket, searching for a bit of paper he had tucked away there before they came down. “Blast it, where is it—Jemma, d’you—”

Stopping his search with a gentle hand on his arm, she provided the salient point: “He means _mazel tov_!”

“Er, yes. I wrote it down somewhere, but.” Fitz rocked back on his heels. “That.”

Sylvia ducked her head in a poor attempt to hide her smile. Aaron cleared his throat once, said “Well—” and had to clear it again. “Thank you,” he said finally, “for the good wishes, old man, the better half. I don’t expect to speak for Sylvia often but I know for a fact that we’re agreed that we would be lucky to be half as happy as you two are. Thank you for being the means by which God brought us together.”

The tips of Fitz’s ears were pink as he responded. “Ah well, that was really a madman with a plot to bring down the British government, if you think about it, but, of course, whatever we can do to help, old thing. We’re just happy you’re happy.”

“Hear, hear!” Rolling her eyes fondly at the pair of ridiculous men—both of whom were more than usually comfortable with emotion and had no excuse to behave this way—Jemma clinked her glass with Sylvia’s. “Let no man put it asunder.”

“That’s not in our ceremony either,” Aaron said, clinking obediently regardless.

“Have you got the part about filling the earth? Granted, I’ve only been married twice and I can’t say I was paying close attention, but I’m decently sure there’s something in there about making kiddies.”

Clearly, Stark felt neglected—he couldn’t have come up with something more certain to drag attention back to himself if he had been thinking about it for twenty minutes. Which, Jemma allowed, was absolutely possible. She managed to cover her initial horror with a coughing fit, taking another drink as quickly as she could to avoid answering. The pink in Fitz’s ears flooded into his collar. Sylvia, the most Victorian biologist Jemma had ever known, sat down with a disapproving _tsk_. Only Aaron managed to maintain his composure, as nonchalant as if Stark had commented on the weather.

“Not in so many words, but seeing as my people got that command directly, we take it rather seriously.”

“I’ll bet you do,” Stark muttered. “Rules about that kind of thing?”

“Only the one,” Aaron said, “and very few people find it difficult to keep.”

From the depths of the sofa, Sylvia made a noise. Fitz started desperately speaking even before Jemma’s fingers clutched at his elbow. “Er, well, it’s part of the point, traditionally, I mean, so it only makes sense it would be in there, but of course the _other_ things—er, not _that_ , but the friendship and love and so on—”

“I was just thinking,” Stark said, gleaming dangerously, “that you take your vows so seriously, it’s a little surprising you haven’t made a move forward on that one. You’ve been married, isn’t it a year now? I had a bet with Pepper we would see Baby Fitz-Simmons long ago.”

Fitz gulped, staggering a little; Jemma wished she had a hand free to bury her face in. “Oh, no, please say that’s a joke.”

“An exaggeration,” Stark admitted. “She refused to take the bet.”

Thank God for Pepper Potts, she thought through the ringing in her ears. “I’m glad to hear it, as frankly, it’s none of your business, Mr. Stark.”

“No indeed,” Sylvia said firmly. “Certainly not mine. Jemma, the most ridiculous thing happened in the lab today—”

“It _is_ my business,” Stark said, refusing to be silenced, “in fact, it’s the whole world’s business. With the brains on the two of you, you have a downright responsibility to humanity to have as many genius children as possible. Assuming we don’t blow ourselves to bits in the next few years, the world will need them. I think six would be a good number.”

“Six!” Fitz repeated, strangled. Aaron moved hastily to the drinks cart and stood with his back towards the group. Jemma doubted the quivering movement of his shoulders had anything to do with a martini.

“You’re a genius yourself, Mr. Stark,” she said, sweet as honey though her heart was thumping at brass band speeds. “One might say you have an equal responsibility.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “My circumstances complicate the matter. You have everything you need, including practice. Have you seen them with the kiddies?” he demanded of Sylvia, who gave him the smallest possible nod.

“I wouldn’t refer to those poor children as _practice_ , but—”

“Exactly! They’re naturals.”

“I only meant,” Sylvia said coldly, “Jakob and Lise are human beings with their own needs, not test subjects. Fitz and Jemma are helping them, not the other way round.”

“Not half helping, really.” As the room looked to Fitz, he looked to Jemma, watching for her agreement. “Anything we do, it’s only a patch job. We can’t actually fix what’s wrong for them, and we shouldn’t pretend we can. We can only help them find ways around it.” _Am I right?_

_Perfectly_ , she responded, feeling her face go soft with affection. “Anyway, we aren’t their parents, and the very best thing would be for us to return them to their real parents as soon as possible. We continue to hope for that.”

Even Stark couldn’t come up with a bon mot to follow that wish, so they all sipped sombrely in a silent toast. “I hope your appearance,” Aaron said to Stark after a moment, “doesn’t portend future woe. We’re up to our eyeballs in it already.”

Already lightening, Stark dug in his pocket after a cigarette. “As for future woe, that depends on your perspective. Would you believe some people turn pale when they see me coming, as though I’m a sign of the Apocalypse?”

_Yes_ , Fitz told Jemma with a waggle of his eyebrows. She stifled a giggle.

“But this time,” Stark continued, “just for fun. And to bring Fitz some toys. And to check in on my favourite protégés while I still can, since they insist on staying here in dreary London instead of coming to visit me in sunny California despite my repeated invitations.”

“Well, you know Fitz,” Aaron said. “The Scots insist on being as miserable as possible. They feel it gives them moral superiority.”

“I think the moral superiority comes by my refusal to shirk my duty to go gallivanting on holiday at odd times.” Fitz took Jemma’s glass from her, moving towards the bar as he spoke. “The only holiday we’ve been able to take was our honeymoon. We haven’t had time for anything else.”

“The school terms can be a bit tyrannical,” Jemma said, shaking her head in answer to Fitz’s silent question. “I’ve only just finished, really.”

Stark sighed dramatically, dropping back into his chosen chair. “Just finished your degree, and now you’re on to the next thing, and there will be no time to visit Uncle Tony until my namesake is old enough to have his own lab. I’d take it as a personal slight if it wasn’t so obvious that you’re only following the natural order of things.”

The glasses clinked together rather alarmingly. With a worried glance Fitz’s direction, Jemma sought another topic of conversation in vain.

Tossing back the last dregs of his wine, Aaron sauntered casually to set his empty glass in front of Fitz and leaned one elbow back on the bar. “They’d hardly be both slighting you and naming their first child after you,” he pointed out, all ease hiding an iron warning. “Far better to assume they’re making any and all life decisions without reference to you, I think.”

Sylvia shot her fiancé a look, warning but mostly proud, and wrested the conversation away. “Speaking of the natural order of things, Jemma, my landlady’s cat has had kittens. I wonder if _die_ _Kinder_ would like one?”

“Very much,” Jemma said, grateful, “but I don’t expect Fitz would.”

Pouring out another glass for Aaron, Fitz let his shoulders drop with resignation—and a bit of relief, she guessed. “Since the cottage in the Highlands remains a distant dream, I will not get what I want. A cat is fine, I suppose. As long as we keep the—you know, the—”

“Yes, Fitz,” Jemma said, rolling her eyes.

“—away from anywhere I am likely to be spending a great deal of time.”

“Cats are very clean,” Sylvia said. “Fastidious, really. And fortunately Jemma has plenty of experience with dead bodies to dispose of any unwanted gifts.”

Stark sat up enough to flick his cigarette stub into the fire, reaching in the same movement for his abandoned whisky. “You’ll have to get used to it soon. I hear children are worse than dogs when it comes to that kind of thing.”

“Oh, for Lord’s sake,” Fitz began desperately, flushing again, “we aren’t—”

“—going to discuss this any further.” Jemma set her jaw, giving Stark the stare she had perfected on Fitz’s employees who tried to condescend to the president’s wife. “I don’t know how they do things in California, but if it includes discussing private matters in company I’m sure I don’t see why we’d visit. I hereby forbid further mention of children or babies this evening. We’re all clever adults with a wide range of interests; I’m sure we can find more interesting things to discuss than the hypothetical state of anyone’s womb.”

Fitz’s mouth opened and shut a few times, making him look rather like a goldfish, and she sent him as fervent an apology as she could. She knew he would be mortified by her candour, but she also knew Stark would continue to press his own agenda unless called on the carpet in rather dramatic fashion and she absolutely _refused_ discuss this any further—for Fitz’s sake as much as for hers. If Fitz had to suffer through a bit of discomfort to avoid a much worse situation, so be it.

Stark held her glare for a moment, dark eyes inscrutable, before bursting into a laugh. “Do you talk to your scientists with that mouth, Doctor? I’ll bet they’re all terrified of you.”

“They have a healthy respect for me,” she said icily. “Which is more than some people I know.”

Putting three fingers up in the air, Stark assumed an expression of innocence. “I respect you completely, Doctor Fitz-Simmons. I will be a good boy from here on out.”

And, she supposed, he tried his best. If he didn’t quite manage to stop dropping broad hints, he did avoid the actual words, and the always-wise practice of studiously ignoring his more outrageous statements allowed the rest of the party to continue the conversation with more or less equanimity. She could feel Fitz tensing beside her at every oblique reference, but no one else could.

At last—never had she expected to be glad to see the back of Aaron or Sylvia, but extraordinary times—they said goodbye to their friends, shoved Stark into a cab, and locked their bedroom door behind them to share a long sigh of relief.

“All things considered,” Jemma mumbled into Fitz’s jacket, just opposite his heart, “we ought to count the evening a success.”

He huffed a mirthless laugh, one hand coming up to rest at the nape of her neck. “Because everyone escaped alive? True, that doesn’t always happen at parties we attend.”

“Fitz,” she chided.

“Or maybe it’s him. I honestly thought Sylvia could have happily strangled him at least once.”

“I don’t blame her. I don’t like being told the end of films either.”

“Did I say I blamed her?” Fitz sighed, loosening his hold so he could pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, Jemma.”

She left her hands resting on his chest, watching him steadily so he could meet her eyes easily when he chose. “You aren’t Tony Stark’s keeper, Fitz. What could you have done differently?”

Nothing, of course—no one save Pepper Potts could make Stark do anything he didn’t want to—but he considered it anyway, the dear man. Finally coming to the same conclusion, he lifted one corner of his mouth and dropped a kiss to her cheek before moving away to tug his bowtie undone. “Not gone into the office at all? But then I suppose he would have gate-crashed your meeting.”

Jemma caught a glimpse of her pointed smile in the mirror as she went to remove her jewellery. “Oh, I don’t think even he could have managed that.”

His next words all but disappeared into the carpet as he went to the end of the bed and sat down to unlace his shoes. “The worst bit is I actually like him. It would be easier if you only tolerated him because you wouldn’t personally feel ashamed of his behaviour.”

“I hardly think Aaron and Sylvia blamed us.”

“No. We’re unlikely to want him to embarrass us before our dearest friends. Jemma—” Fitz sat up sharply, one shoe dangling from his fingers. “You know, don’t you, that he didn’t get those ideas—I mean, I’ve never mentioned anything about, er, all that. To him or to anyone.”

“Of _course_ not,” she said, turning to face him, but he continued, clearly unable to stop.

“There’s no reason to mention it, even if it was the sort of thing you did. Of course I’m excited and pleased that we can begin thinking about it now you’re done with your doctorate—”

“I think we’ve done a bit more than think about it, don’t you?”

“Well.” He cleared his throat, dropping his eyes almost shyly, and her heart swelled in her chest. “But we’ve only just begun. I know these things take time.”

She looked across the room at him, the best man she had ever met, her Fitz whom she knew by heart, whom she knew better than her own heart, and found she almost couldn’t breathe for the knowledge of the future unfolding before them. Everything that had happened in the intervening time disappeared; her elation of the afternoon returned in full measure and more. “They do,” she agreed, unable to keep her smile from splitting her face any longer, “but perhaps not as much time as you’re expecting.”

His eyebrows drew together as he examined the ceiling thoughtfully. “I don’t see how it can be any shorter. There’s an order to it we’d rather not anticipate.”

“True, but according to Doctor Marshland when I saw him this afternoon, we’ve got a head start on the process.”

The shoe dropped from his grasp. “Jemma. What?”

“ _Fitz_.”

As she came to stand before him, she watched his face shift from confusion to wide-eyed breathless disbelief, only seeing the match to her luminescent joy when she pulled his hands up to span her lower stomach. “Do you mean it?” he whispered, staring at the intersection of their thumbs.

Her laugh spilled over, uncontainable, and she ran one hand fondly through his hair. “Of course I mean it, darling idiot. Whyever would I joke about it?”

“I don’t know, because of what Stark—”

“All he did was nearly drive me mad with what I knew and you didn’t. I could have killed him myself when I came in and he rose up like the Weird Sisters.”

His thumb swept a gentle arc across her stomach. “Why didn’t you make some excuse to tell me?”

“I didn’t want to shove it in between cigarettes. I thought we deserved to savour it. We’ll only have one first child, after all.”

“That’s right,” he said dazedly, and finally looked up at her. Tear tracks ran down the slope of his nose. “It’s now. We’re having our first child now. _Jemma_.”

“Yes, Fitz.”

In response, he tugged her down to sit on his lap, leaving one hand on her stomach and using the other to direct her mouth to his. He kissed her with tender wonder and awe, still slightly sticky from his tears, his hands caressing, his lips cherishing. Jemma basked in the glow of him, letting his warmth seep into her bones until it kindled a fire and she tugged him closer in search of a second gear.

“Wait, wait,” Fitz panted, holding her back with one hand even as the other tangled in her hair. “Haven’t we got to be careful? I don’t want to hurt you. Or—”

“You won’t.” Cupping his cheek, she darted forward to press a kiss to his cheekbone. “You can’t hurt Baby, and I know you won’t hurt me. You couldn’t, even if you tried.”

“Excellent,” he almost growled, and dedicated his not inconsiderable intellect to showing her exactly how pleased he was about her news.

Later that night, too happy to sleep but too tired to do much more than hold each other, they lay an inversion of their usual position, with Fitz’s head on Jemma’s shoulder and one of his hands blanketing her stomach. Jemma’s thoughts wandered dozily: when they should begin returning the upstairs library to a nursery; how their families would respond; what their baby would look like and be like and grow up into. The possibilities, truly, were endless. The only thing she knew for sure that it would certainly not be named after Tony Stark. “Fitz?” she whispered, “are you awake?”

“Mm.”

“Did Stark really only come for a visit, or—”

His breath was a warm puff against her skin. “It’s no worse than it was before, Simmons.”

“That’s quite bad enough, though.”

“It is.” He let the silence stretch between them, stroking idly at her skin. Then it wasn’t idle anymore, and his hand stilled before resuming its motion more carefully than before. “Are you worried about it? Now, I mean, more than you were before. Do you think we made a mistake, wanting this when the world seems poised on the edge of a knife?”

She resettled her cheek against his hair, breathing in his scent, letting it ground her. Was she? She ought to be, she knew; the news grew bleaker every day, and it seemed impossible to believe war wasn’t coming. Fitz would be in greater demand than he was now, and her attention would be split four ways, and who knew what sort of world would be left for their child to grow up in when it was all done. But—“No,” she said. “Not more than before. Women having children in 1890 couldn’t know there would be a war when their sons were grown, and if they had, should they have not had them? Not been married? But then you wouldn’t be here, Fitz, and that would be a loss to the world.” She tightened her arms around his shoulders, trying to offer him the conviction she felt. “We can’t know what will happen. What we can know is that as long as we’re able, we will protect each other, and our baby, and Jakob and Lise while they are with us. And that will have to be enough.”

Still not taking his hand from her stomach, he pushed himself up on his elbow enough to meet her eyes. The room was dark, but not dark enough to hide the love pouring out of him. “You are always enough for me,” he said, and bent down to kiss her. And then they hid against each other’s hearts and finally drifted to sleep and sweet dreams, as any new parents-to-be should enjoy.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, an enormous parcel appeared in the front hall with a card that read _To the Fitz-Simmons Family with Love From Uncle Tony_.

Upon opening it at teatime, they discovered a giant inflatable ball, a collection of very nice Fortnum & Mason marmalades, a Scrabble set, sheet music for Lise, a good ink pen for Jakob and, in a flat box by itself, a beautiful hand-tatted lace christening gown.

“Outrageous,” Fitz said, doing his level best to appear outraged rather than chuffed to bits.

“Simply outrageous,” Jemma agreed. But she sent him a more-than-polite thank you note, all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> The title refers to the old pregnancy test, in which they would inject rabbits with the blood of the potentially pregnant woman to see if the hCG would affect the animal's ovaries. Though not in wide use, the procedure had been around for almost a decade at the time of this story, and I thought impatient, forward-thinking Jemma would likely make use of the latest scientific advances.


End file.
